Parachute
by FirstRabid
Summary: This is a S4 fix-it fic for Sterek Fans that allows that Derek is attracted to Braeden and did sleep with her. But this fic is still Sterek at the core. Draeden fans probably won't like it, since it also assumes that Derek is not himself during S4. That he hasn't been himself since the last scene in S3B. People do a lot of things that aren't permanent when they are changing.


**PARACHUTE**  
by Rabid1st  
**Fandom:** Teen Wolf – Sterek  
**Spoilers:** To S4 Episode 8  
**Rating:** YA for sexual situations and adult perspectives. No sex here.  
**Betas:** None! So, excuse my typos and comma splices. But Birthsister did read my rough draft and advise me.  
**Prompts:** Sick/Unwanted Transformation  
**Warnings:** Canon compliant about Braeden/Derek relationship, but this is a Sterek fic. **CHARACTER DEATH** as expected in canon. I can't say it won't hurt...but this isn't one of those tragic, the lovers die together, sort of fics. I've simply killed the people I think will die at the end of S4.  
**Summary:** A fix-it fic that allows that Derek was attracted to Braeden and did sleep with her. This fic is still Sterek at the core, since it also assumes that Derek is not himself during S4, but is, instead, falling/foundering/broken. People do things that don't make a lot of sense, or do make sense but aren't smart, when they are changing at a fundamental level. The purpose of the fic is to help Sterek fans feel better...but I'm not going to skewer Braeden to do that. I'm taking a different approach.  
**Disclaimer:** Not my characters or my world. All hail Jeff Davis and MTV. This is just emotional therapy. Do not imagine this is copyrighted or anything because all I'm doing here is making myself and a few thousand other people feel better about Teen Wolf.

Funny how something as insubstantial as a polyester sheet can overcome gravity and save a man from certain death. Gravity is an immutable force. It anchors the world.

When he was very young, Derek used to spend his free weekends haunting the cliffs on the edge of the preserve. He liked seeing all of Beacon Hills at once. It made him feel like the Lion King. He would run to a point that looked out over the city and faced a small airport. On clear summer days skydivers filled the heavens with bright blooms of silk defiance. Derek loved to watch the parachutes lazily circling. After he practiced his roar a few times, he would lie on his back, his eyes fixed on the normals as they floated through the clouds. Not were-eagles or witches, just ordinary people spiraling down with what seemed to him unnatural confidence. He'd wondered about their foolhardy courage, trusting their lives to a bit of thin cloth. His kind could heal, even from a devastating fall. But normals were breakable.

With the cockiness of youth, he'd taken his healing for granted and felt invincible. The fire taught him that all mortal things were fragile, all life was fleeting. He'd accepted his own mortality while sifting through the ashes. But he hadn't expected the end to come like this. Now he was dying by inches. His healing gift had been stripped away with the rest of his wolf-identity. Liberated from every assumption he'd ever entertained about himself, he was free-falling. And he had no parachute.

And that's where Braeden came into his story, on his way down. When the thought struck, Derek froze, gripping his shirt in both hands as he glanced over at her. She was tugging on her boots with perfunctory grace. No wasted energy. But the bend and twist of her body pleased him. Strong, beautiful and deadly, with a whiff of magic about her, she ticked all his boxes. He admired dangerous women. Women who reminded him of his mother, perhaps. Was that so wrong? Odd he would think it was. It felt wrong. Sinful somehow. It always had. But he'd never stopped to analyze it before this moment.

Derek lived by his instincts. He wasn't big on self-analyzing. He just did his best in the moment. When he wanted something within his reach, he acted on the desire. Because...? Because he took so few risks. He rarely indulged, rarely let himself free of the anchors and chains. He didn't skydive. That would be foolish. He'd dreamed of it many times, but would never take the plunge. Not like...Stiles. Silly, defenseless Stiles would throw himself out of a perfectly good airplane. Or in front of a werecoyote. He'd be terrified, but he would do it.

Derek kept his feet on the ground, a slave to gravity. He was his own anchor. There was no chance at all he'd be carried away by errant emotions. But he still had needs. When he wanted to touch or be touched, he found someone equally angry. Someone he could let die. Go. Someone he could lose and go on. Was that it? Kate. Jennifer. Braeden. Was that what they had in common? He wouldn't mind losing them? Could he be so callous? Of course, he didn't want them die. But it wouldn't be his fault if they did. They could all take care of themselves. It wasn't up to him to save them. Like he should have saved Paige. There it was, the nagging shame. He did his best to mollify it, but the truth was...the people he loved died. He always arrived too late. Look at him now, late to his own funeral.

He knew he was dying. Scott might not be able to face it, but in some ways Derek had been dying for years. He wanted to savor the human experience of connection, even as he faded. Drink beer. Laugh too much. Get laid. So what? He clung to Braeden's small kindnesses like James Bond clinging to the strut of a prop plane while the bad guy kicks at him, but the sex had been less than satisfying for him. He wasn't comfortable being human.

Handicapped as he was, unable to hear Braeden's pulse or smell her arousal, he'd fumbled around for her trigger points. She'd taken charge of him, as he'd hoped she would, directing the encounter. But the whole business had taken too much concentration and had only delivered a burst of light at orgasm, a few heartbeats of connection. If this was how the human-folk lived, it was no wonder they had so many broken homes. How did they know who to trust? Who was pack? Derek's wolf-heart longed for complete merging of two into one. It made sense to seek someone who could survive in his world. But, at his core he believed that his mate was dead and gone. He'd killed her himself.

His mother had promised another would come. Don't give up hope. A mate will find you. Now it was too late...too late.

"You should sit this one out," Braeden said, focused on her array of weapons.

"I can take care of myself," he said, with a little smile. He brandished his gun, before tucking it into a holster at the small of his back. "You taught me how."

"I taught you a few basic skills," she said, as her gaze lifted to intersect his. "Going into this fight with no experience would be suicide. Stay on the perimeter."

He gave her his best sardonic eyebrows. "With Stiles?"

"Stiles is still alive," Braeden said. "After how many fights?"

"Too many," Derek said, thinking about Aidan and Allison.

His mind skipped to Erica and Boyd and all of those deputies who had died while Stiles was possessed. The little nuisance just kept dodging death, while battling ninjas and druids and the Nogitsune inside his head. That fox had been powerful. Derek would never forget being tossed aside like a used tissue. Nobody had outwitted Stiles, yet, and even the Nogitsune hadn't outplayed him. Stiles had beaten his internal monster. He didn't sit on the sidelines. He charged into the fray, armed with nothing more than his bat and brains.

_I'm not afraid of you._

_Okay, maybe I am. _

Derek grimaced as he bent to scoop up his keys. His three-week old wound throbbed. How did humans stand the slow healing? The truth hit him low in the gut. Stiles was braver than he was. Foolhardy, too, perhaps. But Stiles risked injury or certain death all the time. He was taming Malia, who had run feral for years. Who did that? The strongest Alpha would probably have just put her down and avoided the hassle. Not Stiles. He took on absurd challenges without the aid of any supernatural powers. Right at this exact moment, he was preparing for this fight. And Derek wanted to hide under the bed. His wolf instincts hated weakness. Cowering was the Omega way, but an injured predator seeks shelter. He was afraid and defenseless and it defied his nature to be aggressive in such circumstances. He wasn't sure he had enough courage to overcome his fear.

What was it Malia had said?

_We should try to think like Stiles! _

WWSD?

Something idiotic. Quixotic.

"We could just leave town," Braeden said, reading him in a way that he couldn't, as yet, read her. "Just go. Tonight. It's the smart move."

"We promised Scott we would be there."

"On the spot where a family of Banshees says we are all going to die?"

"I'm dead already. Dead wolf walking."

"This doesn't have to be our fight."

"My name broke the code," he said, crossing his arms. "That makes it my fight."

"You're not the only person in the world named Derek," she teased and then stepped closer to touch his folded arms. "I'm serious. We could ride off into the sunset and never look back."

"Until I fell off my motorcycle," Derek said. "My life-force is draining away."

"So, I kill the bitch draining you, and then we go. Problem solved."

"I'll stay with Stiles," he promised her and turned to snatch up his jacket.

Stiles never stayed put.

"Malia!"

"Stiles! No!" Derek's voice cracked. He made a grab for the hoodie as it flew past him, but ended up with a fistful of empty jacket when Stiles wriggled free. Damn it all. Malia's screams echoed in the air. Scott howled. Gunfire cracked. Monsters roared. "Son of a-Stiles? Wait up."

So much for guarding the perimeter. Consigning his soul to his mother's care, Derek grabbed the extra bat Stiles had brought him as a joke and ran toward the mayhem bottled up in Lydia's boathouse. Where the hell was Deaton? Not that Derek needed him. Mountain ash meant nothing to him, at this point. It didn't even singe his skin as he rushed through the barrier. That was a small blessing. And he could only die once...now that he was almost human. Always look on the bright side.

Arriving in the middle of the battle, Derek tried to make the most of his waning strength. He swung the bat in a wide arc, feet planted firmly, and felt it crack into Peter's ribs. Derek ducked a wild counter punch. As he danced back, Argent and Stiles tackled one of the Berserker's and sent it and Malia into the lake. The distraction broke Derek's concentration. Peter took a moment to swat Derek aside without the slightest compunction.

As he crashed into one of the walls, pain stabbed through Derek's neck and his body went numb. He tried to push himself upward and realized he couldn't feel his hands or any other part below his chin. Blackness rushed in from all sides as he slipped toward oblivion. Okay. Dead. But no pain. For the first time in his life, letting go came easy. There was really no choice. Braeden appeared, floating into his rapidly narrowing field of vision. She called his name, but he saw no reason to answer. He wasn't the only Derek in the world. A name couldn't overcome the gravity of this situation, couldn't catch him as he fell.

Down. Down. Down. Into blackness. No more Derek. No suffering. No guilt. No worries. Until the parachute appeared. It started as a ghostly shimmer in the darkness and bloomed open. It arced like a canopy above him. Gossimer strands of something wrapped around him, warm and supportive.

_I've got you. Hold on. Remember._

It wasn't exactly a voice, more like a vibration in his mind. An itching annoyance. A familiar presence. Keeping him alive. Making him live. Holding him up. Stiles. Stiles was with him, just like he'd been in those moments after Kate shot Derek down with her wolfsbane laced bullets. Derek tried to remember the locker room dream, to conjure it into his mind's eye again. But there was nothing left of him now. No memories. Nothing above or below. Only blackness and this silver parachute of Stiles.

Let go, Stiles. I'm dead. It's over.

_Not yet. I've got you. Come back to me._

I can't. Stiles...I'm too weak.

_You can. Remember yourself._

What does that mean? Remember myself?

_Derek Hale._

Who?

_Yes. Who is Derek Hale?_

Me? I guess. So what? I'm nothing now.

_When is nothing something?_

Stop with the riddles. My God, you're annoying!

_That's it. Fight. Don't let him win._

I'm sorry. It's over.

_No. Remember. Who is Derek Hale?_

I am. I'm Talia's son. I'm the middle child. I'm a Scorpio or maybe a Capricorn. I'm tired. I'm finished.

_Damn it, Derek. Pay attention. Remember. I told you. On the chessboard._

Stiles. Let it go. Just...this is a dream. I'm dying. Just...

...let me-the chessboard?

_I told you who you are._

The king? I remember my name on the king. Peter said...something. Peter said...

_Chess is Stiles' game._

That's right. I don't know what that means. I forgot to ask. And it's...too late.

_No! It isn't. Remember. The king is dead..._

Long live the King.

_He's usurping your place. Taking your power._

Peter?

_Yes. Take it back. It's yours, by right. Take it._

I can't. Kate did something to me.

_Kate is a pawn. She created a conduit. Look._

Derek felt ghostly hands guiding him, turning him, until he could see a blue trickle of light tracing through the dark. It disappeared into the distance. That was him, his essence, his wolf power draining away. It was a brilliant blue. The color of his eyes. But his eyes shamed him. And as he acknowledged that, his mother's voice joined with Stiles' voice, so they seemed to harmonize as they spoke.

_They're beautiful. They always will be._

My mom used to say that.

_I know._

How can you know? Everything about me is...lost...

_Stolen. By Peter. Remember? Even Paige. _

_Remember..._

_...who..._

_...you..._

_...are!_

"Derek? Derek, can you hear me?"

He surfaced into consciousness, gasping. Only a few moments had passed, but Peter had Scott cornered and was choking the life from him. Stiles had taken Braeden's place above Derek. Braeden lay crumpled on the floor near Argent who was shooting at the remaining Berserker. Derek drew a ragged breath, but choked and coughed. His hand went to his lips and came away sticky wet with blood. He could smell the blood. There was a lot of it. But feeling was returning to his body.

"Stiles?" Argent called. "We need to fall back. He's too strong. Is Derek alive? Can you help him?"

Stiles glanced at Lydia who crouched beside a soaked and injured Malia. Both girls gave Stiles the thumbs up sign. He turned back to Derek.

"Oh, no, Stiles," Peter growled, his head rotating until he was glaring at them. "You've done enough."

"It was Harris who ruined your plans," Stiles said, puffing as he tried to lever Derek's weight up. "Not me. All those random killings. Weren't so random after all. The Benefactor was cleaning up this town, before you could rise to power. He was trying to stop this, but it just made everyone stronger. Scott. You. Lydia."

"If it weren't for you meddling kids," Peter rumbled with malicious good humor. He squeezed Scott's throat, making him whimper.

"You're killing him," Stiles said, half-rising.

"Well, that is the point," Peter said. "Can't make an Alpha without cracking a few spines."

As he spoke, bones snapped and Chris Argent fell, broken by the remaining Berserker. It roared and turned it's attention to Kira and Liam, the last of the chess pieces in play. What they needed was riot gear and a bazooka. If only the sheriff hadn't been sidetracked on his way here. Derek held onto Stiles to keep him from making a suicidal rush at Peter. Stiles started yanking on Derek's arm again.

"Up. Get up. Derek. Come on. You have to stop him."

It was such a ridiculous demand. Derek would have laughed if he'd had enough breath. But, like the vibration in his dreams, these words resonated. Could he stop Peter? Even in his current state, could he make a move, some unexpected gambit? What would Stiles do? Figure this out. And Scott would change the rules. Derek almost chuckled when he realized Stiles was the queen in the chess analogy.

He needed to take a fresh look at the board. Maybe it wasn't about outer strength. Peter was borrowing power. If they cut off his supply, they actually had him cornered. All Derek needed, all he'd ever needed, he realized was Stiles on his side. Those hands on his skin. They sent a silvery heat through Derek's veins. He felt something surge in his chest. A certainty. Peter was an upstart. Derek was the King. The rightful heir. And being King wasn't about power. It wasn't like being the Alpha. Dictators craved power. A chessboard king had almost none. But the game was lost if he fell. Being King was about taking responsibility. A king must hold his kingdom together. The Hales were the true benefactors of Beacon Hills. They kept the balance. Something Peter never would understand. So, it was up to Derek to rule until Scott was ready to assume the throne. Then Derek could abdicate his duties.

Derek reached deep into his subconscious, found that blue current and simply reversed the flow, drawing it back into his body. Peter sensed the change and dropped Scott. A tactical mistake, because Scott was still an Alpha. He attacked Peter. And so did Kira and Malia. Peter fell back, and back, as a spiritual tug of war began. But Derek had an extra player on his team. Stiles was helping him, somehow...with his touch, his will. They were connected.

It made sense to pull him closer. A sort of fairytale sense, Derek realized a few seconds later. But, by that time, he was already committed to the action. Stiles gave him a curious look, but offered no resistance. He relaxed, in fact, leaning in until their lips met. Derek hadn't intended to kiss him. But it felt right. They fell into an embrace with remarkable ease. It wasn't even slightly romantic. It couldn't be, given the awkward angle and the blood and the specter of imminent death hanging over them. It was more like battlefield CPR. A spark to start his heart again.

Derek didn't need the arriving Deaton's breathless, "Oh, thank God!" to know he'd found something better than an anchor.

Strength poured into his limbs. His eyes shifted, allowing him greater scope of vision, and he knew they would be glowing blue. His bones knit together. His wounds closed. And he moved with his habitual animal grace when he simultaneously rose to his feet and spun Stiles to one side. There hadn't been a second left to them. Peter, having shaken off the others, was on a murderous trajectory straight at Stiles. Derek intercepted his uncle's charge with a blow to the throat that put him down. Peter's wolf posturing turned to mewling submission as he collapsed at Derek's feet.

And Derek roared, moving in for the kill.

Scott roared back.

Their eyes met and they both started circling.

"This can't be good," Stiles said.

"Get yours," Deaton said, pouring a fistful of mountain ash into Stiles' hand.

"Mine?"

"Scott," Deaton clarified. "You're his emissary. Control him."

He shoved Stiles away from Derek and toward the Alpha. Unacceptable. Derek crouched for a spring.  
Stiles blinked in obvious confusion, but dutifully tossed the handful of ash, looking as if he didn't quite believe he was casting it. It settled in a circle around Scott, stopping him in his tracks. Derek was so shocked he forgot to be territorial. Stiles was an Emissary? Well, of course. Derek knew that. Hadn't he known it all along? The pieces clicked together in his head. Stiles drawing the ash circle around that club so long ago. Stiles standing up to so many shifters. Supporting and advising Scott. Training Malia. Holding off the Nogitsune. The spark. Their connection. Derek seized control of himself. He wasn't the Alpha here. And Stiles was Scott's Emissary. Everything suddenly made sense. Derek tipped his head in Beta submission.

"I'm okay."

"Better safe than sorry," Deaton said, corralling him in mountain ash anyway.

Derek rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to attack Scott. They were brothers. But, tempers were running a little high and there was a lot of animal magnetism in the room. He surveyed the carnage as Kira pulled her sword out of the last Berserker's chest. Lydia was looking down at Parrish's or rather Mr. Harris' body. Argent was obviously gone, as well. Derek felt the pang of that loss. The blue and red lights of arriving squad cars cast strange shadows up the walls. Things were settling down, when Malia threw herself at Peter's cowering form. She clawed and kicked as she berated him.

"Lying. Manipulative. Murdering. Monster."

"Stiles? Would you mind?" Deaton said, gesturing at Malia.

"What?" Stiles said, guilelessly, as if he completely supported her actions.

"We don't have to kill him," Scott said.

"But we should," Stiles said, before tossing his hands in the air. "Okay...fine. Malia? Stop. Come here." He pulled on her elbow. She snapped at him and he let go, falling back. "Hey! No biting."

"You can't be turned," Lydia said. "That's your power. You just stay human."

"He deserves to die," Malia said.

"He's your father," Deaton told her.

"I don't care."

"Well, apparently, we do," Stiles said. "Because...patricide is wrong. And...uh? And I've got nothing."

"So, once again we are not going to kill the murdering psycho werewolf...because...?" Lydia said. "Anyone?"

Scott shrugged. "He gave up?"

"I doubt that he has," Stiles said. His gaze locked onto Derek's and stuck. The energy arching between them created a magnetic pull.

Derek had to blink his way free of it. He forced his glance down to Peter, and then swept it around the room. He noticed Braeden staggering to her feet. The Sheriff had halted in the doorway to survey the scene. His face drained of color when he saw Chris Argent's body. Better late than never, Derek thought.

"I have an idea," he said. "Something Arge-Chris told me."

"Peter hasn't already outbid me on this, has he?" Derek said as he placed an envelope full of cash into Braeden's hand.

"Not a chance. I might kill him on the way there though," Braeden said.

"Deaton tells me that concoction can keep him in a trance sleep for the next twenty years. He'll wake up a new man. Argent was going to take Kate to these people."

"The Rehablitators," Braeden said, pocketing the cash. "We'll find them. Are we sure killing him wouldn't be kinder?"

"I don't want to be kind."

"Remind me to never piss you off," Breadon said, moving in for a kiss. He ducked away from it. "So it's like that? And I was hoping you would come with us to Mexico."

Derek cocked a brow at her. "To La Iglesia?"

"Bad memories?"

"I can't go with you."

"We make a great team."

"I like you."

"But...?"

"We aren't a team," he said. This was new to him. He'd never rejected anyone he still liked. Never felt like he had the right or knew enough about himself to say no. "I know where I belong now. Who I am."

"And who you belong with?"

"Uh...?" Was he blushing? He hoped not! He wasn't going to discuss his feelings with her. Or Stiles. Or anyone.

"I have eyes. And yours are always on him."

"That's not true. I barely noticed him." Until you nearly lost him to the Nogitsune, his mother's voice said in his mind. So much for lying to himself. And not discussing his feelings.

Braeden grinned. "If you say so."

"I have no idea what to do about this."

"Not my problem."

"Right." Stiles was his problem. He was in love with...mated to...a teenage boy. So...? He suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands. He jammed them into his jean's pockets, before leaning in to give her a chaste kiss on the temple. "Be safe."

She didn't deign to answer him. Of course she'd be okay. She didn't need him. He could let her go.

"At least you kissed him," she said, heading for the door. "Always kiss your boyfriend before you take care of business."

"You didn't die," he said, as if that was her consolation prize.

"Did you expect me to?"

Derek shrugged, even though she had her back to him. "People I like generally do."

"Wish you'd told me that before we hooked up," she said.

"Might have dampened the mood."

She turned to meet his eye through the open doorway. "For the record, I'm hard to kill. Remember that if I ever come back as a were-bitch!"

"You aren't coming back."

"No. I'm not," she said and closed the door.

There was a van downstairs. Deaton had Peter in drugged stasis for the trip. The Rehabilitators, the people who designed the spell Peter had used on Derek, would slowly take Peter back to his own youth. Derek hoped Peter would turn out better next time around. Braeden climbed into the driver's side. Her motorcycle was trailered for this trip. Deaton road shotgun. Derek watched through his window as they drove away.

When they vanished from view, his gaze lifted to the crescent moon. Kate was still out there, somewhere. Would she try to free Peter? Was it really over? He didn't know. He heard the grind of the Jeep's gears before he saw it turning into the lot. Of course, Stiles wouldn't avoid this confrontation. He'd started asking questions immediately, wanting to know what was going on between them. He felt the connection, too, but didn't quite understand it. And when had he ever just let a mystery go unsolved? He'd probably already started a new clue-board in his bedroom.

Derek smiled at the thought of playing hard to get, just to keep that curiosity bubbling. It would drive Stiles crazy. And, since he wouldn't be eighteen for four months anyway, it would keep them both occupied. Derek was pretty sure they would spend the interlude dancing around one another and bickering. The thought made him happier than he'd ever been. He felt like he was floating far about the ground. And from this new perspective anything seemed possible. Everything had changed for the better. He'd never made love to a man. Never had a partner in life. Never risked exposing so much of himself, not even with Paige, because he'd been too young to consummate that time. But he couldn't wait to leap into the unknown, now that he'd found his parachute.

THE END


End file.
